


Tales from the Front: Go to Sleep

by NobleinPettiness (APeculiarPersuasion)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Baby Ponine and slightly off parenting whoops, F/M, Family, Family Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Pre-Waterloo, during wartime, this is another repost I found on my computer and don't completely hate so have fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:41:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24208390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APeculiarPersuasion/pseuds/NobleinPettiness
Summary: The battlefield is no place to give birth, and it's a worse place to attempt to raise a child. However, Beatrice married a soldier, and she'll be damned if she can't make good on her promise to her husband and new baby daughter. How she'll be able to act on that promise is anybody's guess, but she has to have some scrap of motherly instinct, right?
Relationships: M. Thénardier/Mme. Thénardier (Les Misérables), Mme. Thénardier & Éponine Thénardier
Kudos: 4





	Tales from the Front: Go to Sleep

The gunfire roared on, though it was the middle of the night; the battle raging on the front was worse than any the young woman had experienced. Impressive, considering that she’d been living a scant two miles from the front lines for almost a year.

It wasn’t the guns that kept her awake, though; it was her daughter. As much as her mother had acclimated to the sound of canons and rifles and shouting, tiny Eponine didn’t seem so adaptive. She refused to nurse, wouldn’t sleep; it was just crying, and it had been since nearly nine o clock that night. 

Beatrice groaned, once again trying and failing to wake up her new husband; the man slept like the dead. “Pierre, if ya don’t wake up an’ ‘elp me wif your daughta, so ‘elp me I will take one’a them guns and make you a casualty!” She hissed in the night; Pierre Thénardier didn’t even roll over.

Falling back to the straw pallet in futility, young child still cradled in her arms, the twenty-one year old woman sighed deeply. “Eponine, ma petite, ma fifille, ma petite chou… You ‘ave ta sleep. Please, if you’re not sleepin’, I can’t sleep eitha,” she pleaded with the infant, receiving neither relief nor peace.

Beatrice raised her eyes to look out through the cracks at the top of the shack she called home. Marrying a soldier had sounded so romantic at the time, and now? She didn’t know what to do with herself. Between Pierre, the soldiers who teased and prodded her, being the only woman in the camp, and her daughter who never seemed to stop crying, she was going to go mad before the war ended. 

It was a clear night; though the horizon was surely lit by flashes like lightening and smoke like the storm that produced it, she could see the full moon shine down clearly. The pale, white light faded through the dusty room and fell upon her daughter, still fussing and using her mother’s dress as a makeshift handkerchief.

Giving another heavy sigh, she gave her daughter a finger to grab in her tiny hands; that usually quieted the tot. She contemplated the child as she began to hum something. Beatrice had never been one for singing, probably since she hadn’t been to church in nearly a decade, but anything that might calm the girl down was worth a try.

Her throat was dry, her voice was cracked, and her rhythm was consistently off beat, but none of that seemed to matter to the infant as she softly sang, “Alloutte, gentille alouette, Alouette, je te plumerai…” 

Eponine’s brown eyes grew wide as her cries and sobs slowed, looking up at her mother in the moonlight. She squeezed her tiny, but strong hand around Beatrice’s finger and marveled at the being which had birthed her. It didn’t seem to matter anymore that the guns were going off, or that the canons were too loud on the infant’s tender eardrums; maman was singing.

Beatrice gave a tired smile and hugged the little girl to her chest, still gazing down at her, “There we are now. Innit that betta, ma petite? Bein’ nice an’ quiet, righ’ ‘ere…”

The babe squirmed a bit since her mother stopped singing, but quieted down after a few moments, content to listen to her mother’s heartbeat. 

“We’re gonna keep you safe, alrigh? Don’t you worry ‘bout tha’, little Eponine… We’ll keep you safe,” She repeated, looking up at the light of the silvery moon. 

“You’re gonna grow up, an’ we’re gonna get away from this war. An’ you’ll be beautiful, li’ me… An’ smart, li’ your fatha,” she mused, talking just to fill the space; she’d never call Pierre smart to his face, obviously. She would never hear the end of it. “An’ someday, you’ll ‘ave a family of your own. But first, we gotta get through this… So please, for God’s sakes… Sleep.”

Her babbling seemed to do the same trick as her singing, as the tiny, swaddled babe in her arms was beginning to drop off. Her big, brown eyes began fluttering shut. After several moments, Beatrice sighed with relief as she heard the sweet, soft snores that signaled the baby was finally asleep.

She gingerly laid down, Eponine between her and her husband so she couldn’t roll around and hurt herself, and watched the light from the moon change angles as it traipsed across the sky. Feeling at peace for the first time since moving to the front, Beatrice was snoring as well, one arm loosely around her husband’s shoulder. They had survived worse; they could take a little war.


End file.
